


Your Eyes Open

by MissWah



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Concussions, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluffy, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:35:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissWah/pseuds/MissWah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chase gone wrong leaves John in Sherlock's care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Eyes Open

The petty thief they had been chasing through the backstreets of London for the past ten minutes was finally starting to slow down, leading Sherlock and John to close the distance between them further. John could tell the thief was becoming winded. Even at this distance he could hear the harsh panting and it was clear that, sooner or later, he was going to have to stop.  
  
John was proven right not five minutes later when the thief came to a sudden stop in an alleyway not ten minutes from Baker Street.  
  
Between the occasional shift at the clinic and all the investigate work with Sherlock he hadn’t spent much time at home and he hadn’t spent nearly as much time with Sherlock as he would have liked to. Hopefully they could wrap this up quickly seeing as Lestrade was already on his way and walk back to the flat and settle down with a cuppa.  
  
What John hadn’t been counting on was the fact that the man would find a rusted old baseball bat in said alley and proceed to threaten to bash Sherlock’s head in. As always John’s military habits- and his more protective side- kicked in and he stood a little straighter, eyeing the distance between Sherlock and the thief quickly and trying to find a way out without getting either himself or the detective injured.  
  
It was one of the many reasons why John always insisted on coming on these chases with Sherlock. As brilliant as he was, criminals, especially when cornered, could be very resourceful and John wanted to be there to back Sherlock up.  
  
“Get the hell away from me!” the thief shouted, the baseball bat tightly gripped in his hands and raised above his head. He didn’t look very steady on his feet and the bat kept swinging lightly backwards and forwards. John was rather hoping he would swing wildly and collapse on the floor. It seemed likely enough.  
  
“Just put the bat down, you’re not getting away from here,” John said calmly. He was actually surprised at how calm he sounded. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his body. His hands were steady, his feet planted on the floor just waiting for the moment when he had an opening to take the man down.  
  
For a brief second John looked over at Sherlock. The detective was standing in front of the thief, his legs parted slightly allowing for greater balance and the ability to lunge at the man should the opportunity arise. Clearly he was thinking the same thing as John.  
  
Sherlock’s reflexed had always been amazing, but it seemed they had failed him this time.  
  
John’s eyes diverted from Sherlock to the thief who had swung the baseball bat backwards, ready to strike. Realising that the baseball bat was heading towards Sherlock- more importantly towards Sherlock’s head- he raced forwards and tried to snatch it out of the man’s hand before it hit the target.  
  
Sherlock was startled for a second as John suddenly came into his line of vision, only to be snapped back into action when the bat connected with John’s head instead of his own. John went down, crumpled on the floor, and Sherlock threw himself at the thief.  
  
They both skittered across the floor, the thief trying to hold on to the bat and Sherlock trying to pry it out of his hands.  
  
He finally succeeded in ridding the man of his weapon and ensuring he wasn’t going to cause any more trouble. He pinned his arms together with one hand and in a fit of rage used the other to punch the man so hard he knocked him unconscious.  
  
He’d never been a violent person- aside from that one time he threw a man out the window, but he’d had his reasons- but whenever someone tried to hurt the ones he loved he couldn’t control the anger and let it out until he was sure they weren’t going to cause any more trouble.  
  
Leaving the man on the floor he quickly went over to John who had just started to open his eyes and was looking rather confused.  
  
Sherlock kneeled down next to him, his hand going straight to the trickle of blood emanating from the doctor’s forehead. “John, are you alright?” He cupped John’s face with his other hand and waited for him to open his eyes fully so Sherlock could check his pupils.  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
The detective examined John quickly, coming to the conclusion that he probably only had a minor concussion. Nevertheless John needed to go to the hospital.  
  
Sherlock helped him sit up slowly, his hand positioned on John’s back for support. John’s hands grasped Sherlock’s free arm, trying to hold on to something as a wave of vertigo washed over him. Once he was finally sitting up he took a deep breath and looked at the detective.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise and he scoffed. “You’re asking me if I’m alright? I’m not the one who got smacked in the head with a baseball bat, John.”  
  
“Oh, so that’s why my head hurts.”  
  
By the time John was standing up, leaning heavily against Sherlock, Lestrade and his team had finally arrived.  
  
“What the hell happened here?” Lestrade asked as soon as he saw the pale and bloodied John Watson and the unconscious thief on the floor.  
  
“We cornered him, he hit John and then he got what he deserved,” Sherlock replied quickly, slowly walking towards the road where he could get a cab.  
  
Lestrade seemed to accept the facts easily enough- it wasn’t the most surprising thing he’d come to find at a crime scene- and watched as Sherlock supported John and they walked slowly towards the road. “Where are you going?”  
  
“Hospital,” Sherlock replied.  
  
“I’ll give you a lift.”  
  
Lestrade left his officers to take care of the scene, and the thief, while he drove Sherlock and John to the hospital. He kept Sherlock company in the waiting room while John was observed, surprised that the detective hadn’t tried to fight his way in.  
  
He was sitting quiet and straight back on his chair, his eyes staring off into the distance. While Lestrade was used to being ignored by Sherlock, especially when he was thinking, he was worried that John’s injury had upset Sherlock more than he’d let on- not that he would ever admit that it had upset him in the first place.  
  
“Sherlock?” he called out softly, not wanting to startle him, but the detective kept staring ahead. Lestrade put his hand on his shoulder and called out to him again. “Sherlock?”  
  
He snapped out of his daze, blinked a few times and then staring at Lestrade. “What?”  
  
“John will be fine, you know that, right?”  
  
“Of course he’s going to be fine,” Sherlock snapped. He couldn’t even fathom a scenario where John was not fine because it was just too painful to think about. Even so it had been scary to see John go down. Not only because he’d always viewed John as a soldier who could take care of himself but also because it had happened when John had been trying to save him.  
  
Now as he sat here waiting for absolute confirmation that John was okay and could go home he thought back to all the times he had ended up in the hospital and John had to sit there waiting for him to wake up or waiting for him to be patched up, always worried about what might have been and how Sherlock would come out of it.  
  
He vowed to himself to be more careful from now on. If one small concussion could bring his mind down with worry he couldn’t imagine what John would have felt like when he was in his position.  
  
Luckily John was released not long after and Lestrade drove them back to Baker Street.  
  
Just as Sherlock had suspected John only had a minor concussion and the only thing he needed was rest and for Sherlock to make sure to wake him up every couple of hours.  
  
It was nothing they hadn’t done before, though usually it tended to happen the other way around. Perhaps now it was time Sherlock looked after John for a change.  
  
John was still slightly dizzy so Sherlock helped him out of the car and into the flat, faintly calling out a thank you to Lestrade before he drove away.  
  
Once they reached 221B John settled down on the sofa and laid his head on the pillow.  
  
“Would you like some tea?” Sherlock asked, looking down at John. He had been enraged when John had been taken down, but now that he knew he was going to be okay Sherlock went into his caring mode. It wasn’t often it was required, but there had been a time or two when John had needed him,.  
  
“Tea,” John repeated, his response muffled by the pillow covering most of his mouth.  
  
Sherlock chuckled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”  
  
He went over to the kitchen and prepared two mugs of tea. When he came back into the living room John was in the exact same position. He put the mugs down on the table and shook John’s shoulder slightly.  
  
“John, I need you to sit up, your tea’s ready.”  
  
John moaned in response but managed to sit up slightly on the sofa. Sherlock was left to do most of the work. He propped John up against a few pillows and took off his jacket which he folded over the chair on top of his own. He also checked over John’s head quickly and then pecked him on the lips which seemed to finally bring John back to consciousness.  
  
Before Sherlock pulled away John grabbed him by the back of the neck and brought their lips together again, only for a few short seconds, and then let go of the detective.  
  
They both sat quietly on the sofa sipping their tea and then Sherlock stretched himself across the sofa with John comfortably positioned between the detective’s legs with his head resting on Sherlock’s chest. In this new positioned- and more relaxed then he’d been all day- John started to feel the pull of sleep. He turned on his side slightly, using Sherlock as a pillow, and closed his eyes.  
  
“I’m tired,” he muttered into Sherlock’s chest.  
  
The detective dropped a quick kiss on top of John’s head and started stroking John’s back slowly. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you up in a couple of hours.”  
  
Sherlock kept a close eye on the time, monitoring John for any physical change. The wound was no longer bleeding, John’s skin wasn’t as pale and his breathing was normal. Even so, Sherlock couldn’t relax entirely and paid more attention to John’s sleeping form than he did to the telly he had turned on, mostly for background noise.  
  
He wasn’t surprised that John had wanted to sleep not long after coming back from to the flat. He had been working late at the surgery and when it was finally his day off Sherlock had him running around London.  
  
Exactly two hours later he sat up, pushing John up with him, and started kissing his partner slowly, from his shoulder, up his neck and all the way to his lips. By that time John was awake and started kissing back. He turned around, bracing himself on either side of Sherlock’s arm, and threw them both back down on the sofa.  
  
“I see you’re awake,” Sherlock noted with amusement.  
  
John hummed in agreement and attacked Sherlock’s lips once again. They lay on the sofa for a good half an hour kissing and cuddling until John sat back up and brought his hand up to the bandage on his head.  
  
Sherlock was instantly on alert. “What’s the matter?”  
  
“Just a bit of a headache, nothing to worry about,” John replied.  
  
Sherlock kissed the side of John’s head and then got up, making his way to the kitchen. “I’ll get you some ibuprofen and something to eat. What do you want?”  
  
 John got up from the sofa and stretched before joining Sherlock in the kitchen. “There are some leftovers in the fridge. I’ll take care of it.”  
  
Sherlock set the tablets and a glass of water down on the kitchen table in front of John who took them willingly. “I’m perfectly capable of heating up some food, John.”  
  
John looked at him with a dubious expression on his face. “Do you remember what happened last time you tried to cook something?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock admitted rather ruefully.  
  
“Would you like me to remind me?”  
  
“You know perfectly well what happened, there’s no need to bring it all up again.”  
  
Sherlock sauntered into the living room and sat down on his chair with an exaggerated sigh. John laughed at his reaction, knowing that Sherlock’s lack of prowess in the kitchen was a sore subject for the detective.  
  
“Are you eating as well?” John asked as he took out the leftovers from the fridge.  
  
“No,” came a quick reply.  
  
John frowned, thinking back to the last time he had seen Sherlock eating. He didn’t actually remember when that was. “Sherlock, when was the last time you ate?”  
  
He walked in to the living room to see Sherlock staring at him. It was clear he’d heard the question and was simply refusing to answer it. “Sherlock,” John warned.  
  
The detective huffed in annoyance but finally replied. “Just before the case started.”  
  
John’s mouth gaped open. “That was two days ago, Sherlock! Are you honestly telling me you haven’t eaten since then”? He didn’t know whether he should be worried, angry or impressed that the man was still standing- or in this case at least conscious.  
  
“I’ve had tea and coffee, no need to worry.”  
  
John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath before opening them again. He walked over to Sherlock’s chair and kneeled down between the detective’s legs. “I’m not going to tell you how worried that makes me. And I’m not going to tell you how much of an idiot you are for ignoring your body’s needs. What I will tell you though, is that next time I find out you haven’t eaten at the very least one proper meal in the day, and let me assure you I will know, you will sleep, alone, on that sofa for a whole week.”  
  
Sherlock looked affronted by the ultimatum, but recognised that maybe not eating for three days was a bit not good.  
  
John raised himself up to his feet, feeling victorious when he was able to do so without swaying. “I will ask you again, are you eating?”  
  
“Yes, John,” he replied, sounding very much like a small child. “Thank you.”  
  
John heated up their meal and they ate it in the kitchen table which was, for once, devoid of experiments or science equipment, though John doubted it would last much longer. They spent some time watching telly afterwards, Sherlock tame and preoccupied with John enough to not complain about the programmes they were watching. While John watched the telly, Sherlock watched him.  
  
There was just something about John Watson that turned him from Sherlock Holmes the world’s only consulting detective to Sherlock Holmes the world’s most compliant partner. It went completely against Sherlock’s nature. He was always defying orders, doing the exact opposite of what he was asked or just outright ignoring requests, but not when it came to John. Whenever John asked him to do something he would comply- sometimes unwillingly, sometimes not- but he would always do it because he knew John only had his best interest in mind and would only become increasingly worried if Sherlock didn’t do what he asked, and Sherlock wanted to make sure John was always happy.  
  
Soon enough Sherlock felt himself drifting off. Not only had he not eaten for two days he hadn’t gotten much sleep either. He went to bed every night now, with John, which was a big improvement from the time when he used to spend days on end awake, just taking the occasional nap on the sofa.  
  
John felt his head sink lower in Sherlock’s chest and looked up to see that the detective had fallen asleep, his head now tilted back against the armrest. He was tired as well, the long days at work and now the concussion had taken a lot out of him and he just wanted to get some sleep, but he knew from experience that the sofa was a horrible place to do it. He yawned lazily and stretched, his arms reaching back behind his head, which woke Sherlock up. The detective sat up suddenly, bringing John up with him once again, and started frantically looking around the room.  
  
“John? John, where are you?” he asked, until his eyes fell on John, still very much on top of him, and with an amused expression on his face. “You’re here, you’re okay. You are okay, aren’t you? How’s your head?”  
  
“I’m fine, Sherlock, just a little tired. But then it is midnight.”  
  
Sherlock seemed to relax from his frantic state and sank back into the sofa. “I dreamed that I couldn’t wake you up. You just slept and slept and no matter what I did you wouldn’t come back to me.”  
  
Sherlock had never been one for nightmares, luckily, but John knew exactly what it was like to wake up still feeling the remnants of the dream wrapped around you, unsure of what was real and what was not. “I’m right here, Sherlock, and I’m awake, see? I’m fine.”  
  
He kissed Sherlock’s lips, lingering with very little space between them after pulling away. “I’m right here.”  
  
“Would you mind showing me that just one more time? Just to make sure we’re both really here.”  
  
John grinned, but complied. This time Sherlock was the one who grabbed him and deepened the kiss. Their tongues merged together, hands struggled to find a place to rest and their eyes shut tightly against the floodgate of emotions a simple kiss between them could bring. So many times it had been a reassurance that they were both okay. Whether it was after nearly dying, or an injury, or a nightmare, it had become a big part of their relationship; the need to reassure themselves that they were there, in one piece, and together.  
  
“Satisfied?” John asked.  
  
Sherlock gave him a radiant smile and pushed him to a standing position. Wordlessly they completed their nightly routine. The doors leading to the stairs were closed, the telly was turned off and they each got into their pyjamas before getting into bed.  
  
Exhaustion made them both succumb to sleep instantly. John slept more deeply and less fitfully than Sherlock though. The detective knew that he had to wake John up in two hours and had regulated his internal alarm clock accordingly.  
  
John, on the other hand, was having, for once, quite a pleasant dream.  
  
 _He was lying in Sherlock’s arms, his head tucked under the detective’s chin and his arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Sherlock was kissing the top of his head, slowly, soothingly, and running his long violinist fingers up and down John’s exposed arm. This was the calmest they had ever been. There was no rush to go off to a crime scene, or to the clinic, or to cook or to answer the doorbell- possibly because Sherlock shot it. John loved every aspect of their relationship, even the times when Sherlock nearly blew up the kitchen during one of his experiments or left body parts in the fridge. It was part of what made them who they were, as a couple, and John embraced it all. But this, just lying quietly in each other’s arms, was definitely his favourite thing in the world. He still loved the excitement of a case and the pleasure they could bring to each other, but there was something special about the quiet moments. When Sherlock’s mind would finally quieten down and he could just relax._  
  
Back in the real world Sherlock’s clock was going off. He managed to rouse himself from sleep quite quickly and looked down at John. The doctor was sleeping peacefully, arms wrapped around Sherlock’s waist and head resting just under Sherlock’s chin. Suddenly he gave a contented sigh and a small smile played across his lips. Sherlock felt a smile of his own coming on and suddenly he didn’t want to wake John up, but he knew he had to.  
  
“John,” he called out quietly, shaking John’s shoulder and running his fingers up and down his arm, but John gave no sign that he heard him and just continued dreaming.  
  
Another call of his name.  
  
A more forceful shake.  
  
John’s smile disappeared and his brow started furrowing slightly. Sherlock took it as a sign that he was finally waking up. “John, wake up, come on.”  
  
His voice was louder.  
  
His hand was firmer.  
  
John grunted slightly and curled up under Sherlock’s arm even more, but Sherlock’s was having none of it. He needed John to wake up now. “Wake up, John! Please!”  
  
A broken voice called out.  
  
The comfort of a body disappeared.  
  
A single word broke through John’s subconscious and his body reacted as it always did, whether he was awake or asleep; he obeyed.  
  
 _“Please!”_  
  
John’s eyes snapped open just in time to see Sherlock looming over him. He looked scared. His muscles were tense, his lower lip was trembling and his eyes were watery.  
  
“Sherlock, what’s wrong”?  
  
At seeing John’s clear eyes and hearing his voice Sherlock’s resolve broke. He collapsed on top of John, burying his head in John’s chest and wrapping his arms around the man as well as he could in their position. John was still a little confused but it was obvious that Sherlock was upset, so he did what he could to try to make him feel better.  
  
He brought his hands up and gently laid them on either side of Sherlock’s head, bringing it up so that the detective was looking him in the eye. After a chaste kiss and another short cuddle Sherlock seemed capable of speech once again.  
  
“What’s the matter?”  
  
Sherlock took a deep breath, steadying his nerves and telling himself once again that John was fine. “I couldn’t wake you up. You were asleep, and I couldn’t wake you up. I had to wake you up, John. I had to.”  
  
“Shh, I know, Sherlock,” John said, bringing his hand up to cup the detective’s face, “I’m okay, there’s nothing to worry about.”  
  
“Yeah, there is,” Sherlock snapped, “you wouldn’t wake up.”  
  
“Would you like to know why I didn’t wake up?”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Because you have a traumatic brain injury which affects brain function and can have negative cognitive effects as well as-”  
  
Sherlock broke off when John kissed him abruptly on the lips, effectively shutting him up. He struggled for a second or two, adamant that he needed to get his point across, but gave in soon enough and just relinquished himself to the sensation. John only broke off once he was certain Sherlock was going to shut up and let him speak.  
  
“I have a _minor_ concussion, Sherlock. And no, that was not the reason why I didn’t wake up. I didn’t wake up because…” John struggled for a second, not entirely sure how to tell Sherlock the real reason without sounding overly sentimental, but the look on Sherlock’s face said he better hurry up and give him a good reason before he rushed him off to the hospital again. “I was having a really nice dream about us and I didn’t want to wake up, alright?”  
  
Sherlock looked taken aback only for a second and then his face split in a wide smile which showed just how satisfied he was with the knowledge that John was having a dream about the two of them. “And what exactly were we doing in that dream”?  
  
“Nothing, we were just cuddling and you were running your fingers up and down my arm and that was it. It was just nice.”  
  
John gave a little shiver when Sherlock started doing exactly what he’d just described. He manoeuvred them so that John was once again on top of him with his head on his chest and his arms around him. “How’s this?”  
  
“It’s exactly the same as in my dream.” John closed his eyes and let the sensation of Sherlock all around him wash over him. “How did you know?”  
  
“Because that’s how we fell asleep.”  
  
“I didn’t realise.”  
  
Within a few minutes they were both fighting off sleep again. They were both tired and just wanted to rest, but they had a long night ahead of them. No matter how many times John claimed he was fine he knew that Sherlock would diligently wake him up every two hours until neither of them managed to fall asleep again.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“What for?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“For looking after me today,” John replied. He needed Sherlock to know how grateful he was that he’d been taking care of him, especially when it would take away a good night’s sleep from him.  
  
John held off sleep just long enough to hear Sherlock’s reply, uttered in the quiet of the night, right next to his ear.  
  
“It’s what I’m here for.”


End file.
